There's always one. The breakfast table has been set by the hosts, supplies have been bought, the hostess had gone out this morning to get fresh bread from the bakery. All this based on those of us who said we'd have breakfast when we were asked last night. Then a French woman appears, sees the breakfast laid out and says: "We didn't tell you yesterday that we'd want breakfast, but now we've decided we'll have it anyway, that's OK isn't it." She doesn't say it as if it's a question. "Here's the money" before she's even had an answer. She then, with her husband, proceeds to help herself to various things from the table. There's a piece of fruit for everyone. She take the only two oranges, no question of sharing our even acknowledging the fact that the quantity has been based on the number of people who actually had done the right thing. Then poof! Two yoghurts gone so two of the original group will go without. Suddenly the butter has found its way next to her along with the juice. Nobody else seems to exist for them. Everyone seems too taken aback (or is too polite, unlike this woman) to say anything.
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| Breakfast with oranges |
I've noticed during the ride in through the streets near the hostel that there's a lot of broken glass on the road - it's an area full of bars, cafes and restaurants with street seating in the evenings, so it's not really a surprise. It makes riding a bike a bit of a fraught experience if you're trying to avoid a puncture. This morning as I ride out I'm looking down more than up, doing my best to avoid the worst of the glass. And then I get to the place where there are containers for recycling glass and all bets are off; there's glass all over the place of course. I give up and carry the bike, which fully loaded is not so light. Luckily it's only a few tens of metres until I am past this hazard and I'm on my way again.
I navigate my way through the maze of one way streets, getting stuck in the botanic gardens for a while when I find my planned exit fenced off. The are worse places to be stuck. Eventually I'm on the road out of town and am soon riding amongst the vineyards of the Medoc.
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| Harvest time in Margaux |
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| Château Cantenac Brown - in the flesh |
Serendipity. I'm riding through the vineyards of Bordeaux, Margaux to be more precise. I'm enjoying this so much I miss a turn and am riding off the route, but for the moment that's fine, I'm in an area with beautifully maintained vines stretching to the horizon. I ride past a classic Château, impeccably maintained in large grounds and I stop to take a picture. There's no sign, so this is, for the moment, an anonymous Château. I take the picture, and just as I'm about to ride off again I see a sign, relatively discreet considering; this is Château Cantenac Brown, grand cru classé en 1855. It is probably my favourite Bordeaux. The wine has a history for me; I was introduced to it in the most unlikely place: Cotonou in Bénin, West Africa. I was with a colleague from Bordeaux, who knew a thing or two about wine, which I at that stage did not. It was, of course, seriously expensive but in those days of almost unchecked expense accounts it wasn't a difficult decision to have a bottle with our (business) dinner. And here I am, at the Château itself, purely by chance. How good is that?
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| On the ferry (only just) |
I'm approaching the little port where the Bac de Blaye sails from. This is the ferry crossing the Gironde, and I will be catching this ferry to continue my ride. Coming in the other direction I see one bike, then another two, then a bike towing a trailer. 'The ferry must have just arrived' I think to myself. What I should have been thinking was 'the ferry is just about to leave'. I get to the port and there's no queue of waiting cars, I can see the ferry is there and at about the same time I notice that the ferry master is waving wildly at me "Hurry up, it's already past time!" And I didn't even know that there was a time. I make it just as he's starting to raise the ramp. A good example of 'just in time' management except it was purely by chance - no management was involved at all. On the ferry there's a couple in bike gear; the woman approaches me and in hesitating French with a clear American accent asks me where I'm heading. I answer in English and the rest of the crossing is spent taking about our respective rides. Kelly and Jim have booked a cycling holiday, with everything provided, planned and booked. All they have to do is ride from one place to the next. Sort of the complete opposite to what I'm doing (apart from the riding part).
At Blaye I have a coffee stop, choosing a place that claims to specialise in good coffee and tea. The coffee arrives, looking vaguely promising but is scalding hot and partly as a result tastes like the usual bad French coffee. An older couple, who turn out to be English, stop to admire my bike. He's done some long rides in the UK, including from the north to the south, John O'Groats to Lands End (or is that the other way around?) He can't believe how clean my bike is after having ridden so far; it's probably something to do with the weather he's used to riding in.
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| Margaux (as in the wine) in the making |
Leaving Blaye there's a bike path along an old railway line, which makes for nice riding until it exits the shaded area and continues in the full sun, which today is hot. I'm stopped briefly off the track, still at the shaded section, and when I turn to start up again the bike decides to have a rest and falls down, with me underneath of course. There's no damage except to my pride and the whole thing was completed in private with no audience. I ride on, annoyed with myself for a few km.
I have planned to stop at a pilgrim stop which is off my route, but obviously close to the walking route. I have an address which is really only partially correct as it turns out. I arrive at the village only to find that the place is actually something like 4 km out in the countryside, in a little hamlet. To add insult to injury, I've actually ridden quite near it on my way to the village. And it's all uphill from the village (it was a nice downhill run into the village, I should have known better). I arrive at the hamlet (according to the directions I've received) and I'm looking for number 11. Strangely, the numbers seem to go logically down to 13 and then the next house is number 9. Rather annoying. It's only a small hamlet and I double back, eventually finding number 11 around a corner on what I had assumed was another street. There's even a little sign on the corner telephone pole pointing in this direction "Halte Jacquaire" with a scallop shell, the symbol of the Chemin de Compostelle, so I know I've found the right place. But the gate is locked. I decide to swallow my pride and call the place, telling them I'm outside; the guy tells me "Yes, that gate is always locked but the one a little further on is open. I'll meet you at the other gate." I walk my bike through other gate, but sense that something isn't quite as it should be. For starters, the guy I've just spoken to is not there. The door of house opens and a guy comes out with a look that's a mixture of "go away intruder" and curiosity. He's followed by two elderly people (his parents?) who look like they are not quite all there; this is getting interesting. By now I've realised this is not the number 11 I'm looking for, and this isn't the guy I was just talking to. I explain my situation and he, rather unhelpfully it must be said, tells me that there are quite a lot of number 11s in hamlets in France and that it might take me rather a long time to the right one. I ride to the next hamlet, where the very first house, with an open gate and a guy with a phone in his hand, is number 11.
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| Time to boil the water for a cuppa |
Danielle and Dominic are great hosts and the place has quite a few things that Dominic has made in a way that I might have done, or have liked to have done. When I discover that Dominic is a retired engineer - electrical, no less, it makes sense. Somehow this gives me an immediate good feeling for the place.
We have dinner together outside; it's a lovely evening after a hot day.
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